


The Artist

by Evelynn_Rose



Category: Creepypasta - Fandom
Genre: #Horror #Romance #Erotic, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-22
Updated: 2017-11-22
Packaged: 2019-02-05 10:47:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12792948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evelynn_Rose/pseuds/Evelynn_Rose
Summary: My first attempt at Creepypasta. This took me twenty minutes.





	The Artist

There's the peak, the 'oh so familiar' mountain top. We clamber up it together, clamps firmly dug into rock. They crumbled from our combined efforts.

Our? No.  _Mine_.

Lie still and let me work.

* * *

There's that peak I desperately claw my way towards, my nails long since snapped, ripping threads of your skin with them.

It matters not. I grew tired long ago, and, yet, I still search, yearn for mournful...

Sorry. _Meaningful_  ecstasy.

Don't tell me anything. Don't speak. Let your eyes glaze over, softened wax coloured grey. I could scoop them out, pretty, opalescent marbles. Use them as decorative touches. Visitors can  _adore_  them...

So long as they don't mind adorning the  _goop_  they seep...

So, shut up, lie still, and let me work.

* * *

You twitched?

You _twitched?!_  How dare you. How very dare you tear the fabric of  ** _MY_**  reality! What did I tell you, hmm? You get  _nothing_  here, no part in this dance. You do not lead. You follow. That was the plan.  _My_  plan.

You had a plan too, didn't you? Selfish, wanting fool. Who said  _your_  needs came before mine? I couldn't care less if you 'need' me. You utter a word? A peep, and you'll be dead to the world, _as well as_  me.

So, shut your damn  _mouth_. I will only warn you _once_  more.

Lie still, pretty please, and let me do my work.

* * *

Light pops up from beyond the peak, blinding flashes blurring my vision. I scramble onto then over it, rock chipping off from force of grip.

I open my eyes, hazel oozing, my mouth agape, saliva dripping onto your shirt. I see your face, twisted, body contouring, angry carmine blush covering skin.

You want to make a  _noise_ , don't you? I giggle, placing delicate palm across your mouth.

Its _my_  show,  _my_  theatre,  _my_  performance. I expect respect from  _my_  audience.

That means 'shut up', entitled  _cretin_. My script is vanity incarnate. Not for lowly eyes, burrowing their way into it like a tick.

* * *

I take a moment to catch my breath, giving you my attention. Undivided, of course. Wouldn't want anyone to think me entirely an ice bitch, with index fingers wrapped around your 'paintbrush' as you try to splatter me with paint, look of smugness creeping onto your features.

The only canvas you shall have this night is your _own_  body. Paint away, my love. Whether delicate swishes or  _violent_  thrashes, we both know you'll wake up  _alone_.

Sticky, a yawning drone of a lover, believing they are the  _best_  thing since sliced bread.

Headline news?

You  _aren't._

Yes, you shut up, let me do  _my_  thing, but _I_  had to do it. Not you, I.

Spare me afterthoughts of when  _you_  wish to see me next.  _I_  choose the time, the place, the acts. My carnality  _differs_  to yours.

You take, take, and, oh,  _take_!

I give, take, I  _damn_  well take. Its only _fair,_  no?

Don't say no. Say  _yes_. Say its unfair and make me  _sorry_  for saying that. If I need to purr,  _make_  me.

You used to know _how_. Yes, I remember that well...

* * *

I crack open an eye a second time, looking at our _, your_  clock. I ought to leave. 'Tis late, and I need my beauty sleep, lest my errant hands find ways to keep myself  _awake._

You open your eyes (those shades of grey used to be pretty to me) with  _plea_ , open invitation.

You want me to  _stay_? Clean up? I was rather fond of that  _maid_  outfit. It drove you  _crazy_. You'd  _prove_  it to me, the rooftops unable to contain shouts.

 _Yes_ , your eyes widen with my answer,  _you did not find what you were seeking_. Should I open our book, index finger of one hand skimming down its pages, the other skimming _you_?

Perhaps. _Persuade_  me. Take the paint pot, but be gentle. I need coaxing before the physical act itself.

This could work. It could go  _disastrously_.

Go North? _South_?

South, head that way and  _all_  will be forgiven.

You do your job, I'll do mine, and, together, our canvas shall tell a tale of lament, innocence long lost, endeavours greater with time.


End file.
